


But Rather Darkness Visible

by gaslightgallows (hearts_blood)



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Chronic Pain, Developing Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, One Shot, Permanent Injury, Post-Canon, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-05-18 23:47:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19345177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hearts_blood/pseuds/gaslightgallows
Summary: Crowley calls Aziraphale for help.





	But Rather Darkness Visible

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lena7142](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lena7142/gifts).



> For Portraitoftheoddity, for the prompt “Please help me.” (Crowley) Happy birthday, Lena!
> 
> If you're over on Tumblr, please consider following me at [gaslightgallows.tumblr.com](https://gaslightgallows.tumblr.com/) for more fic, reblogs about writing, and lots of randomness. 
> 
> I also write original fiction! You can find it at [aflinley.com](https://www.aflinley.com/).
> 
> Thank you for reading and especially for commenting. Comments are love. ♥

Aziraphale was embarrassingly relieved, when he picked up the telephone and heard Crowley’s voice on the other end. It had been several days since he had seen his friend (although ‘friend’ was no longer the most accurate word for the relationship that existed between them, but it was still the safest one), and he had begun to be concerned. After all, they had neither of them left their respective head offices on the most amiable of terms.

“Is everything all right? You haven’t come round in—”

“Aziraphale... help me. Please... please help me.”

“What’s wrong? You sound... ill.” Which was ridiculous; demons couldn’t get ‘ill’. 

“Something like that. Come to my place. Please.”

“Crowley, what’s—?” 

But the line went dead. 

Concern mounting into worry, and worry starting to tremble on the precipice of something too awful to name, Aziraphale locked up the shop and caught a taxi. 

The drive from Soho to Mayfair was barely ten minutes, with such a lack of the normal traffic that the cabbie called it miraculous, but in those ten minutes, Aziraphale’s nerves conjured up all manner of horrors that his friend (‘friend’) might be suffering. Because Crowley had indeed sounded ill. And in pain. And above all, tired, which was perhaps the most unnerving thing to say about someone who took great delight in sleeping for decades on end. 

Whatever had happened to Crowley in the days between averting Armageddon and now, to the point of needing to beg Aziraphale for help... clearly, it didn’t bear thinking about. 

He paid the cabbie absently and got out. The taxi drove away, with the driver very confused about why he was in Mayfair but very pleased by the unexpectedly enormous tip someone had left him. 

It took Aziraphale a few minutes to remember the code to Crowley’s building. He had been given the number the day Crowley had moved in years ago, but he’d only ever been there once, at Crowley’s invitation, for one exhausted, terrified, exhilarating night. 

The interior of the building was as featureless as the front, but Crowley’s flat was the only one occupying the top floor, so at least he didn’t have to worry about getting lost on the way up. Aziraphale didn’t bother knocking; he unlocked the door with a gesture and stepped inside (unconsciously taking a very large step over the spot just inside the threshold where a duke of Hell had died screaming). 

“Crowley?” he called. “It’s me. I’ve – I’m here.” 

There was no immediate response. He called again, and then heard it, a weak, hoarse croak coming from the bedroom. “Here... in here...”

He almost flew to Crowley’s side. The demon was naked, twisted amongst the black satin sheets, his face and body contorted in pain. His slitted yellow pupils were almost dwarfed by the whites of his eyes, but his glazed expression focused and locked onto Aziraphale. “You came.” He grabbed for his angel’s hands and held on like a lifeline.

Aziraphale couldn’t recall if he had ever cried before, but there was a very inconvenient lump in his throat that threatened to make the entire situation worse. “Of course I did,” he managed. “What’s happened to you, Crowley? Who _did_ this to you?”

There was an anger in his voice that surprised them both, a cold and divine menace that shook him with its unexpected ferocity and made Crowley, if only for an instant before the pain wracked him again, smile.

“Feels like... ‘m on fire.”

“From the heavenly... trial?” There had been no trial, not even a sham one, but it was the only way Aziraphale could bring himself to refer to the ordeal that, if not for Crowley, he would have been forced to undergo.

Crowley shook his head. “Longer. ‘S like... pain from old burns. All over m’ body... wings...”

Aziraphale looked through the human frame before him to Crowley’s true form, with eyes more numerous and all-seeing than any human optical system. “Good lord...” He ventured to lay his hand against Crowley’s face, and was shaken yet again when Crowley leaned into the touch. “How long have you been like this?”

“About six thousand years.”

Horror seized the angel. “You means since—?”

Crowley answered with a grimace and an effort at full sentences. “Not all the effects of damnation are metaphysical. Million light-year dive into boiling sulphur, spend nine days chained in hellfire that doesn’t give off any light, but you can see because now you’ve got snake’s eyes... It never really ends. Most days are better than others. I can usually hide it.”

“I’ve never – why didn’t you ever _tell_ me?”

Crowley shrugged, and then swore, curling into a ball. “Oh, mistake… big mistake…” He gripped Aziraphale’s hand hard until the spasm passed, and had to catch his breath before he could answer. “Didn’t want to upset you.”

Aziraphale felt something inside him clench, and then tremble, and he had no idea what it was. “Do... do all demons suffer like this?”

“Nah, not all. Just the ones who never forgot what it was like, being an angel. So… just me, I guess.” 

With implacable gentleness, Aziraphale retrieved his hand from Crowley’s clutches and coaxed him to lie flat on his stomach. “Wha—?”

“You asked me to help you. I have to try.”

Again, the small, fleeting, agonized smile. “‘S not why I needed you, angel. I don’t think you can fix this, not with all the kindness’n love in the universe.”

Aziraphale ignored him, and tried. He laid his hands on Crowley’s body, on the outward form of the being who meant more to him than the wrath of Heaven, and did his best. 

After a few minutes, or perhaps days, he was forced to concede that Crowley was right. “It’s more than a mere angelic miracle can cure, I’m afraid.” He sat down on the side of the bed, and after a moment’s hesitation, rested his hand on Crowley’s arm. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. You came.”

“You’d have done the same for me,” said Aziraphale simply. 

And it was true. Crowley would have. They both knew it. 

“Just having you nearby gives me a little relief. Always has. Never told you ‘cause... well, I didn’t want you to think I was using you. I mean, I _was_ , just not like that. Didn’t seem... friendly.”

Aziraphale lowered his eyes and smiled. “Then this helps?”

“Mmm. Lots. Nice’n cool... ‘specially on m’ back. Near the wing joints.” Aziraphale moved his hands to the spots and Crowley suddenly let out a moan. “Oh, right there. Right _there_ , angel.”

Aziraphale was suddenly glad that Crowley’s face was turned away, as his cheeks suddenly flushed in a very embarrassing manner.

“G-good,” he stammered. “Good. That’s good, Crowley. I’m... very glad.”


End file.
